Heron and Philip, with chains on their feet, were now rowing on the same bench with the worst criminals; and the old artist’s two remaining children stood gazing after the ship that carried away their father and brother into the distance.  Melissa stood mute, with tearful eyes, while Alexander, quite beside himself, tried to relieve his rage and grief by empty threats.

Soon, however, his sister’s remonstrances caused him to restrain himself, and make inquiry as to whether Macrinus, in obedience to the emperor’s orders, had sent a State ship after the galley.

This had been done, and comforted, though sadly disappointed, they started on their way home.

The sun in the mean time had risen, and the streets were filling with people.

They met the old sculptor Lysander, who had been a friend of their father’s, outside the magnificent pile of buildings of the Caesareum.  The old man took a deep interest in Heron’s fate; and, when Alexander asked him modestly what he was doing at that early hour, he pointed to the interior of the building, where the statues of the emperors and empresses stood in a wide circle surrounding a large court-yard, and invited them to come in with him.  He had not been able to complete his work—­a marble statue of Julia Domna, Caracalla’s mother—­before the arrival of the emperor.  It had been placed here yesterday evening.  He had come to see how it looked in its new position.

Melissa had often seen the portrait of Julia on coins and in various pictures, but to-day she was far more strongly attracted than she had ever been before to look in the face of the mother of the man who had so powerfully influenced her own existence and that of her people.

The old master had seen Julia many years ago in her own home at Emesa, as the daughter of Bassianus the high-priest of the Sun in that town; and later, after she had become empress, he had been commanded to take her portrait for her husband, Septimus Severus.  While Melissa gazed on the countenance of the beautiful statue, the old artist related how Caracalla’s mother had in her youth won all hearts by her wealth of intellect, and the extraordinary knowledge which she had easily acquired and continually added to, through intercourse with learned men.  They learned from him that his heart had not remained undisturbed by the charms of his royal model, and Melissa became more and more absorbed in her contemplation of this beautiful work of art.

Lysander had represented the imperial widow standing in flowing draperies, which fell to her feet.  She held her charming, youthful head bent slightly on one side, and her right hand held aside the veil which covered the back of her head and fell lightly on her shoulders, a little open over the throat.  Her face looked out from under it as if she were listening to a fine song or an interesting speech.  Her thick, slightly waving hair framed the lovely oval of her face under the veil, and Alexander agreed with his sister when she expressed the wish that she might but once see this rarely beautiful creature.  But the sculptor assured them that they would be disappointed, for time had treated her cruelly.